River Steak

There's something about being out near a river on a warm, but crisp, day that makes me crave a particular kind of steak. There is something about taking a thick slice of beef tenderloin, stuffing it with garlic and wrapping it with bacon, and then grilling it, preferably over hot coals of a wood fire, until the bacon is crispy and the garlic is soft, that makes me feel alive. It's a complicated desire.

I was recently confronted with the above situation, thankfully with the means to satisfy that craving. Good beef tenderloin is ordinarily delicious, so much so that some of you might call it blasphemy to then poke holes in it and shove in halved garlic cloves - as many as will fit, ideally. And then perhaps it is further blasphemous to wrap the steak in thick slices of applewood-smoked bacon. But holy hell is blasphemy tasty! Allow me first to extoll the virtues of good meat and a good butcher: A good butcher is worth his (or her) weight in gold or chocolate - whichever you value most. Animals are complicated, especially the large ones, and carving the perfect steak or chop is an exercise in craftsmanship. There's a reason that, like in the other crafts, butchers would have to apprentice - there's a lot to know that you can't exactly learn in school. And a butcher is someone to whom you rather literally entrust your life. While much less true in the current, highly-regulated food-safety system (despite the pervasive horror stories...,) even now a good butcher will not only strive to give you the perfect piece of meat for your intended purpose but will also make sure that you won't get sick from it, if for no other reason than wanting your repeat business! A good butcher knows where the meat comes from, maybe even knows the farmer, and takes pride in your dinner even if not invited.

Good meat can, theoretically, be obtained anywhere in developed nations. Ok, you might have a hard time finding meat on a vegan, raw-foodist commune, but that's not what I'm talking about. While you can walk into most grocery stores and stagger out under a massive mound of meat, it will probably only cook up to be generically tasty. The few times I've had really good meat, adorned with little and cooked only simply, it has been remarkably rich and complex, and subtle, too. Some will say meat should not be complicated. To that I respond: too late, it already is. Cows and pigs and chickens, to only name the most common, taste different in different places - they eat different things, walk on different ground, drink different water. And let's say nothing about different varieties of cow or pig or chicken (or turkey, since Thanksgiving approacheth.) Beef can be sweet, grassy, like dense sunshine. Or it can be dark, sultry, seductive. Or it can taste of minerals and evergreens - trees and rocks.

This is why I like a good butcher - one with whom you can have a conversation about the flavour of different cuts of different kinds of meat. One with whom you can brainstorm interesting new recipes or consult about reproducing a grandmother's grandmother's roast. One who will understand the want, nay, the need, to stuff a tenderloin to bursting with garlic, wrap it in bacon, and put in on a fire.

Incidentally, that bacon-garlic special is more than ordinarily tasty... The tenderloin is a soft, un-fatty cut. This one was corn-fed regular black angus - mild, but slightly sweet and a little rusty. The garlic doesn't cook all the way. It roasts a bit in the beef juices but the cloves are still sharp and a bit spicy. And the bacon adds a gratuitous baste of smoky fat and saltiness. Unfortuantely, this one was cooked on a gas grill. Convenient, but you don't get the same crispy exterior as when you cook just above the white-hot coals of a 3-hour-old campfire. But that's just a hint of a totally different immersive experience - on in which you might just have to fend off ravenous bears to save your precious steak. Would you? I might - this steak's just that good.

Popover Magic

I love popovers. They're tricky, myriad tips and tricks exist that claim to make them foolproof, and I'm still trying to find a recipe and technique that works for me. I just found a website that takes a super-simple approach that I'm going to try tonight, albeit with the obligatory twist.* I'll post the results.

*The twist: Line the popover tin with bacon strips and broil until crispy and then add the batter. Once done, split open the popovers and fill with scrambled eggs and feta cheese. Hehehe :-)

UPDATE:
Popovers are awesome! I tried the twist and it came out OK. The biggest problem is that the bacon has to be super crispy before you put in the batter, and the only way to do that is to cook it beforehand, in the microwave, and then bend it into the popover tin before it hardens completely. Not easy. The other thing the bacon does is disrupt the rise of the popovers, making them not so tall and airy. In the future I think I'll stick to making the popovers as a plain, or just slightly adorned poof, to be filled with delicious additions (like bacon) after they have risen to their ful and glorious heights.

The Chef in the Hat

This story begins with a hat. The particular hat is wide-brimmed and made of straw, in the Panama fashion, with a black ribbon band, and is slightly discolored here and there because it is certainly the hat of a working man. And this particular working man is certainly good at his job and loves what he does at least as much as he loves and is inseparable from the hat. So inseparable are the two that Thierry Rautureau is known, simply, as The Chef in the Hat.

The chef and his omnipresent hat appear in various places in and around Seattle food culture - he has a restaurant, Rover's, and shows up weekly or so on local radio (I can only assume the hat is there, too.) But occasionally he shows up in random and unexpected places, like demo-cooking in Whole Foods one afternoon a while ago. I happened to be walking by the fish counter while he was setting up at a table nearby, preparing to make something I only assumed would be delicious (despite the fact that, at that time, I had no idea who he was!) The whole situation was quite amusing becasuse he seemed to have been left completely on his own with none of the staff to either aid or accompany him. When he needed a utensil, he went rummaging through the supply drawers behind the fish counter and generally had the run of the place.

He was in a rather jovival mood and, thus, seemed happy to put up with me hanging around pestering him with questions for the half-hour or so it took him to create Halibut with Bacon, Ramps, and Morels. More on the recipe in a minute, but I would first like to thank the man for sharing his love of food and his other random stories, like about his old pan, the knife someone made for him, and the rest, all while working with a single electric burner and an eclectic set of utensils to create something that tasted all the better because of everything besides the food (which, itself, was excellent.) He is evidently a man who loves food, loves making food, and loves making food for other people - all of which I appreciate very much.

But the fish, the fish!
First, butter is a wonderful thing. Eating too much of it can get dangerous, but, by and large, it is good for you. Second, bacon is also a wonderful thing. Health benefits debatable, but flavour incomparable. Third, the morel is a wonderful thing. (See a pattern?) Mushrooms plucked from the forest floor have a rather nasty reputation for causing conditions that generally tend toward death, but the ones that don't, such as the morel with its deep and complex taste, can be magnificent. Fourth, the ramp is a wonderful thing. The bastard child of the leek and the garlic, with a growing season of about 2 minutes, use them if you can get them or you'll be seriously missing out. And halibut is a wonderful thing. Cooked well it embodies all of those qualities of which other fish rarely attain but few - it is light and flaky, but at the same time soft and moist, rich and meaty. Perhaps a seeming piscene contradiction-in-terms, but I do not jest.

The sample cooked that day by The Chef in the Hat was delicious and clearly well-practiced - the halibut flaky, the sauce rich and buttery, with the smokiness of bacon, the earthiness of the morel, and the savory tang of the ramps. Unfortunately, I was only permitted one small mouthful (maybe I snuck a second - I cannot recall...) Fortunately, I was given the recipe and, better yet, had seen it made by practiced hands - almost like cooking with your grandmother, though in that case you rarely get a recipe, just the eternal answer, "When it's enough."

I've tried this recipe twice now. The first time I overcooked both the fish and the sauce, so while the taste was right, the texture was off. The second time, being a bit more gentle with the heat and a bit more thoughtful about why each step in the recipe was proposed, success! Try it. You'll like it.

Some things I learned from and about this recipe:
1. When finishing this sauce (and others like it) only boil the sauce for a moment at the very end to make all the flavours and textures harmonize - too much boiling at the end will make the sauce oily and lumpy.
2. Halibut especially, but I would guess other fish as well, cook very well when partially poached and partially baked. I used vegetable broth with the butter and few bits of bacon for twice as much fish as the recipe dictates and it still came out really well.
3. Don't underestimate your dutch oven (or similar) pot - it can work miracles.
4. Be gentle.


BAKED ALASKAN HALIBUT WITH MORELS, RAMPS, AND SMOKED BACON BUTTER SAUCE
Transcribed from the recipe leaflet I picked up that day in Whole Foods.
The Chef in the Hat also has a book of recipes, if you like this one.

5 oz Applewood Smoked Bacon, cut into quarter-inch pieces
8-10 oz Ramps or Small Leeks
8 T Unsalted Butter
4 oz Morel Mushrooms, cleaned and halved (or quartered, if large)
2 t Shallots, minced
½ t Garlic, minced (or 1 t if using leeks instead of ramps)
¾ t Thyme, minced
1¾ C Fish Stock (I used vegetable stock and it worked well, too.)
1 lb Halibut, skinless fillet, cut into 4 portions
Salt
White Pepper, freshly ground
2 t Chives, minced

Garnish: Beet Oil

1. Cook the bacon in a medium skillet over medium-high heat until crisp and brown, 5-7 minutes. Drain bacon and set aside, reserve the fat if you like.
2. Trim the root-ends of the ramps and cut each ramp in half where the white gives way to the green leafy tops. Cut the white portions into ¼-inch pieces and leave the green leaves whole. (If using leeks, trim to the white and pale green portion, halve crosswise and then cut into ¼-inch-wide strips.)
3. Preheat oven to 350°F.
4. Heat 2 T butter (or you can include some of the bacon fat) in a medium skillet over meduim-high heat until melted and slightly nutty-smelling. Add the morels and sauté for 30 seconds. Add the white of the ramps (or all the leeks) with the shallot, the garlic, and ½ t of the thyme. Sauté, stirring often, until the ramps begin to soften, 2-3 minutes.
5. Add ¾ of the bacon, the ramp greens, and 1¼ C of the stock. Bring just to a boil and then turn down to a simmer to reduce the volume by three quarters, 8-10 minutes.
6. Add another 4 T of butter, swirling the pan so it melts creamily into the sauce. Keep warm over very low heat.
7. Put the remaining ½ C of stock in a large ovenproof skillet and warm over medium heat. Whisk in the remaining 2 T butter and add the remaining bacon and ¼ t thyme.
8. Season halibut with salt and pepper and place them in the skillet. Spoon some of the cooking liquids over the fish and bake until the halibut is just nearly opaque through the center, 5-10 minutes depending on thickness of the fish, basting with cooking liquids once or twice.
9. Pour halibut cooking liquids into the pan with teh sauce and bring just to a low boil. Stir in the chives and season with salt and pepper.
10. To serve, spoon some of the bacon, ramps, and morels onto warmed plates. Top with halibut pieces and spoon the remaining sauce over top of the fish. Drizzle beet oil around and serve immediately.

My notes:
1. Cooking times took a little longer, but that might be my range and oven, and the fact that I used twice as much fish.
2. It reheats marvelously.